


Your Raft in My Storm

by Anonymous



Category: Buzzfeed The Try Guys (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Pre-Slash, Self-Defense, Student Zach, Teacher Eugene, Teacher-Student Relationship, Underage but nothing happens (yet), mentions of bullying, or not?, school setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-05 23:22:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15873810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: He needed to stop the bleeding before he went home. If his parents saw him like this, they would definitely call the school and then everyone would find out – most importantly Frank and his goons – which only meant more trouble for Zach. No one liked a snitch.





	Your Raft in My Storm

Zach Kornfeld’s face thrummed and twinged with pain. His skin prickled like a thousand needles every time he touched it, and blood ran from his nose like snot. He tried very hard to ignore that feeling, because he could already taste it running over his lips into his mouth in a salty, coppery trickle. If he sniffed, it would burn in his throat. Awful.

Not that this wasn’t already awful, because it was, and he had to bite back the sobs but it refused to work. His breath rasped in hitches and gasps, like he’d run a mile. But he couldn’t cry. Not here, in the middle of the boy’s restroom, hunched over the sink furthest from the door, where he hoped to camouflage himself against the wall. Ha, as if that would ever work.

He ripped a fresh piece of paper towel from the dispenser and pressed it to his nose. A sting of pain zapped through his face. Zach hissed, but kept pressing. He needed to stop the bleeding before he went home. If his parents saw him like this, they would definitely call the school and then everyone would find out – most importantly Frank and his goons – which only meant more trouble for Zach. No one liked a snitch.

He met his eyes in the mirror, watery blue on tired, watery blue. “No one likes a snitch,” he repeated. “Shut up, Zach. You can do this.”

He eased the towel off his nose. The red smear on his skin was huge, spreading to the edge of his chin as if he’d slurped tomato sauce straight from the pot. More drops formed under his nose. They tickled, almost making him sneeze. If that weren’t enough, his left cheekbone was becoming weirdly yellow where Frank’s knuckles had collided with it.

A cold fist clenched in Zach’s gut. Even if he could stop the bleeding, there was no way he could hide _that_.

Carefully, he traced the bruise with his fingertips. It burned even when he was not directly touching it, emanating warmth like a heat pack.

“Fuck,” he cursed. He was technically not allowed to use that word, but there was nothing else that fit the situation better. “Fuck, oh fuck.”

The blood he’d neglected to wipe off – or lick up – in favor of poking at his puffy face dripped onto his t-shirt. His brand new, white tee with the chemical symbols for oxygen and magnesium on the front, forming a slightly awkward O-Mg. The one his mother hadn’t wanted to buy for him but Zach had begged, because he was in love, and if she knew he’d ruined it on the very first day...

A wave of nausea hit him. He’d been feeling sick for a while, but now that iron claw had gotten his esophagus, too, and was shaking it with all its might.

Zach pulled off his t-shirt and thrust it under the icy cold faucet spray. Pink smears rippled over the porcelain of the sink, but the fabric stayed stubbornly red.

Zach rubbed the stains between his fingers. “Come on, come on...”

He was so absorbed in his scrubbing, he only heard that someone was coming when the doorknob clicked. Since it was half past four in the afternoon and classes had been out for a while, it couldn’t be another student. They never hung around this late, unless they had a reason. Like... beating up the new kid. Again.

Zach’s stomach dropped. He whirled to face the threat, and then he felt like he needed to hurl, but only partly from moving too fast.

The figure in the door was not an upperclassman with anger issues. It was a dark-haired guy with an angular face locked in a perpetual expression of contempt, and his narrow, black eyes never seemed to miss a thing: neither in the flimsy light of the bathroom nor in class, when Zach was struggling his way through another set of calculations that didn’t make sense. Not even upside down. But Mr. Yang never minded explaining things slowly, and when he looked at Zach, it made Zach’s stomach attempt somersaults. Mr. Yang was undoubtedly the coolest teacher at school, and the absolutely last person Zach wanted to be seen by like this.

Mr. Yang frowned at him, which made him look even more scary. “Zachary” – He was the only one who called Zach that on a regular basis, his parents only ever used his full name when they were _pissed_ \- “What happened?”

Zach’s stomach dropped further. If that was even possible. Maybe, if this moment continued, it would flop onto the floor with a sad squelching sound. His mouth was dry as the dust on the janitor’s cleaning-supplies-shelf. He couldn’t tell Mr. Yang what had happened. He was a teacher, he probably had to tell the principal, and then Zach would be the snitch again.

But there was nothing else he could say to explain, except for an outright lie. Zach didn’t want to lie to Mr. Yang. Not when he was the only one who never minded explaining things for the third time, and when he’d stayed behind the whole afternoon just two weeks ago to go over his homework with Zach so he wouldn’t fail again.

Tongue-tied, Zach yanked his shirt out of the sink. “Nothing, sir.”

Mr. Yang’s shoes barely made a sound on the bathroom tiles. He wore Oxfords, in black, and he walked like he was supposed to in them: with his back straight and his wide shoulders squared, as if he was always in charge. Like now, when he came to lean by Zach’s sink to stare him down.

Zach looked away. He wanted to make himself small – and he was already much smaller than Mr. Yang.

The teacher’s eyes locked on his nose and blood-smeared chin. “Who did that, Zachary?”

Something in Zach’s belly coiled into a tight, hard knot. “No one. I... I fell down the stairs.”

Mr. Yang’s face did that thing it always did when his students presented a wrong answer that they _knew_ was wrong, but tried to pass off as right regardless. His eyebrows drew together and his jaw tensed. Zach called it the _don’t-bullshit-me_ face.

He felt awful. But he didn’t have a choice. He had to make Mr. Yang believe him.

To show everything was just as it should be, Zach picked up his shirt and wrung it out over the sink. Cold, faintly pink water dripped over his fingers as he explained: “Mr. Habersberger had me help him carry up some papers after homeroom, to that glorified supply closet on the third floor. The one with the printer. On my way down, I slipped and fell.”

Mr. Yang hooked a finger under Zach’s chin, forcing him to look up. His face was set into a hard, unforgiving mask. “Do stairs leave such distinct, punch-like bruises on faces these days? I’m going to have a talk with Mr. Habersberger. He needs to look after his students better.”

Zach’s throat constricted. His thoughts started to spin, going faster and faster until they flew right out of his head. He didn’t dare to step back from Mr. Yang, so he had no choice but to meet his eyes.

“No, please don’t do that,” he blurted. “He didn’t even know. It was after class. I’m just clumsy, it wasn’t his fault!”

Mr. Yang lifted an eyebrow. “It was one of the older boys, wasn’t it? Tell me who.”

Frantically, Zach wrecked his brain for something to say. But there was still nothing. He was shivering and the wet shirt on his belly wasn’t helping.

He could do nothing but stare dumbly.

The teacher was so close now, Zach could almost feel the heat of his teacher’s skin on his face. “I can make them stop, Zachary,” he said, in a voice that was probably supposed to be soothing but sounded more like a threat. “Just give me their names and they won’t ever harass you again.”

The way he said it – the assured, I-am-an-adult-and-I-know way – had a violent burst of hope bloom in Zach’s chest. It was immediately crushed by a wave of resignation. Of course Mr. Yang had to say that. Despite his scary face, he was a really nice guy most of the time. But he didn’t have eyes everywhere and the other teachers didn’t either. There was always a way for Frank and his friends to corner Zach, and then he’d be in deep shit.

“Tell me, Zachary,” Mr. Yang demanded.

Zach flinched, bumping backwards into the sink. “No!”

Mr. Yang scowled. He stepped back, then turned around on his heel and headed for the door. “Follow me.”

Zach furrowed his brows in confusion. Would they go to the principal’s office now? Was Mr. Yang going to hand him over to the higher-ups because this was above his pay grade?

Zach would never admit it out loud, but he was a little scared of principal Fulmer. Not only because of his unhealthy obsession with soccer. He also had a problem controlling his volume and he took every missed goal personally, as everyone in the two soccer clubs he managed could attest to. Zach didn’t want to be alone with him in a room, he would crumble like a cookie in his mother’s coffee.

The door swung shut.

Grinding his teeth, Zach grabbed his bag. Then he yanked a fresh piece of paper from the dispenser and pressed it to his nose. The dripping had all but stopped now, but his face was still a bloody mess. He hurried out the door. If he didn’t manage to convince the teacher not to rat him out, he was done for.

The corridors – white floor tiles plus yellow wallpaper that was turning brown in patches, behind rows of blue lockers full of stickers from the field trip to that Lego event the entire junior class was forced to attend – were empty. Outside the windows, the sky darkened, and Zach felt distinctly out of place.

He started running to catch up to Mr. Yang. “Sir!”

The teacher was a lot faster than Zach because he had long legs, and his black trousers made them look even longer. Before Zach was beside him, he held up his hand. “Don’t waste your breath.”

He opened the door that lead out into the back of the school yard, where the gym building squatted like an ugly brown turtle. It hadn’t been renovated in twenty years and by now, the stench of _generations_ of teenage boys permeated the walls.

Mr. Yang fumbled with his key chain. Like any adult, he had a dozen different keys, and Zach couldn’t help but wonder: if every key unlocked a secret, was it really possible for a person to know another person, at all?

The door creaked open, releasing the full brunt of principal Fulmer’s last soccer practice. Zach’s eyes watered. He never envied the poor sods who had sports first thing Friday morning.

Mr. Yang didn’t seem to care. He didn’t even seem to _notice_ , striding through the changing room without wincing a single time.

Zach pressed both hands over his mouth and nose and followed his teacher into the equipment room, to the right corner, which they never used in class. Square red mats rose before him, neatly stacked so high they almost reached the ceiling. Mr. Yang grabbed two. “Help me with these. Take one.”

Confused, Zach dropped his backpack by the door and took the mat. It was heavier than he expected, but also softer. When he tried to steady it on his knee it tried to fold in half, and the shift of weight almost sent him sprawling. He made a tiny, helpless sound. “Oof.”

“Over here,” called Mr. Yang, placing his mat in the middle of the hall. “Put them right next to mine.”

Zach did as told, and then they fetched a few more until the mats formed a sizable red square.

Then Mr. Yang toed off his shoes, pulled off his dress socks and folded his glasses. He stepped onto the mat with an expectant expression. “What are you waiting for? Shirt, too.”

He took the hem of his sweater and pulled it over his head in one fluid motion that made the muscles of his abdomen roll under his skin.

Heat shot into Zach’s cheeks. He looked away quickly. But now that he’d seen it, it would be the stuff of his wet dreams: the hottest teacher of the school – and, who was he kidding, his _crush_ – undressing before him: not scrawny and chicken-breasted as Zach had tried to make himself believe in order to get over it, but lean and fit and toned. Also, he wasn’t hairy. If Zach didn’t have a problem with his own body before – and he had, everyone his age had, it was part of being a teenager – this would have done it.

Mr. Yang folded his sweater and placed it over his shoes so it wouldn’t touch the gym floor. He then knelt on the mat, hands in his lap. In this position, he was barely shorter than Zach. “Come on, we don’t have all day.”

Zach’s face was on fire. Not only that, but his ears too, and he was probably beet-red from the tip of his hairs all the way down his front. He didn’t want to be half-naked in front of his gorgeous teacher.

But Mr. Yang had that grim expression on his face again, so Zach scrambled to obey. He pulled at his wet, still slightly bloody tee while at the same time trying to work his shoe off his foot with the toes of his other foot. Just as he was yanking the tee over his head, he lost his balance and flopped onto the mat like a sack of potatoes.

Mr. Yang ‘tsk’ed, scooted forward on his knees and pulled Zach up by the arm. “Now, put your right foot forward.”

His broad, warm hand curled over Zach’s wrist, and Zach wanted to run away. At the same time, he didn’t, because that one touch felt like someone poured coke over his skin. It tickled up his arm in a rush of goosebumps, raising the fine hairs.

He glanced shyly at Mr. Yang. Weird that he didn’t even have to look up for that. “Sir?”

Mr. Yang rolled Zach’s wrist in his hand, loosening it. “Self-defense. I’m going to teach you a move.” He met Zach’s eyes. “And if you manage to learn that move and use it successfully to defend yourself from me, I won’t mention this incident to either the principal or your homeroom teacher. Deal?”

Zach’s heart jumped in his chest. “Deal.”

-

Mr. Yang demonstrated how he wanted Zach to move, starting out slow. First, he had to unbalance his opponent by stepping out of his line of attack. After that, he needed to give a little push to use their own weight or speed against them, causing them to fall. It didn’t seem that hard.

Once he’d finished walking him through the motions a third time – the magic number when it came to Zach understanding mathematics – he grabbed Zach’s wrist again. “Ready?”

He didn’t feel ready. But he took a deep breath and focused on Mr. Yang’s big hand on his arm. “Yes.”

“Good.”

Mr. Yang pushed, and Zach turned his body inward like he was supposed to. But his teacher was right there immediately, rotated his hand over Zach’s wrist and pulled. With a yelp, Zach tumbled forward, propelled by the force of his own body until he hung there by his twisted arm.

Mr. Yang, because he was a dick like that, just let go.

Zach, unable to catch his fall, crashed face-first into the red mat. It was harder than he expected it to be, and it stunk of sweaty feet. Pain zinged through all the spots Frank had roughed up earlier. He cried out. “Hey, that’s not fair!”

“Life is never fair,” Mr. Yang admonished. “But you are really out of shape. I’d hoped with your utter lack of talent in class, you’d be a sneaky weasel in sports. Instead, you’re just weak all-around.” He leaned over Zach with a menacing glint in his eyes. “Are you sure you should continue?”

The words felt like a punch in the gut. Zach had already been through one brawl today and he wanted nothing more than to curl up on himself like a porcupine. But the knot behind his sternum that had formed back in the restroom, when he’d stared at his pathetic bloody baby-face, had grown painfully tight.

He sat up and inspected his arm. Red spots were forming where Mr. Yang had gripped him, but it moved okay. He was good for another round. “Yeah, let’s do it again.”

“Why?” Mr. Yang asked. “We could just talk to Mr. Fulmer and be done with this. It’d be so much easier for you, and then you can go home and cry into your pillow about all the mean boys you’re too chicken to rat out.”

The pressure in Zach’s chest turned into a sharp, bitter sting. He jumped to his feet. “I am not a chicken!” He thrust out his arm, fists clenched. “I’m going to beat you. Take my arm!”

Mr. Yang’s eyes widened.

Zach immediately regretted his words. His limbs felt like noodles that had been cooked too long. He couldn’t even hold his own weight – which made sense because if he _had_ muscles, Frank would never have picked on him and they wouldn’t be here. He’d also never have gotten to see his teacher naked.

Or seen him smirk like that, with his black curls handsomely mussed up. The tilt to his mouth was mocking: he didn’t believe Zach could do it.

Zach’s insides burned. He had to focus to unclench his fist without grabbing Mr. Yang’s arm and just digging his nails in.

But he barely waited before Mr. Yang was in position before he jumped into motion. “RAAA!”

The world – or, well, the gym – whirled past in a blur. Zach only felt the rush of air against his face, weirdly cool, suffused with the clean smell of Mr. Yang’s cologne. Or was it deodorant?

He couldn’t stop to focus. His body seemed to know what it was supposed to do, almost as if Mr. Yang’s hands were still on him and guiding him.

Zach pulled his wrist in the same direction his teacher was pushing, unbalancing him due to the lack of resistance. Mr. Yang stumbled forward.

Relief flooded Zach, making his insides weightless. He could do this.

But Mr. Yang was a practiced martial artist and apparently also a very sore loser, because he fought for his footing.

Zach could already sense the swipe to his legs that was to come, and then Mr. Yang would use the distance between them to shove him down. He didn’t want to be shoved down again, mostly because his body was already aching all over. On instinct, he ducked and dove for his teacher’s knees.

Mr. Yang, probably in an effort not to step on his student, jerked back. Fortunately, he was a second too late to stop his forward momentum. Since catching himself meant dropping right down on Zach and squashing him like a bug, Mr. Yang resorted to some kind of somersault-fall that ended with him flat on his back.

Zach’s jaw dropped. He couldn’t quite believe his panicked trick had worked.

Quickly, he picked himself up and crawled on top of Mr. Yang, settling there with his knees on either side of the man’s waist and both hands flat on his chest. Zach was not heavy enough to pin him, but he could scowl. “I win.”

Mr. Yang stilled. Only his rib cage moved, rising and falling with every breath under Zach’s hands. His black curls splayed against the mats, his dark nipples were very close to the tips of Zach’s fingers... and Zach was almost sitting on his teacher’s dick.

As soon as he realized how close they were, Zach’s face went sunburn-red. The heat rolled down his body in waves, writhed under his skin and gathered between his legs. It did things to him that had only ever happened at night before, or sometimes when he worked up the courage to touch himself, which, okay, had been more and more often during the past few months.

In a panicked rush, he jumped off his teacher. He wanted to say something, anything, to defuse the situation, but his mouth refused to obey.

Mr. Yang sat up. He had the inscrutable expression on his face again that looked like he was angry, and this time it was directed at Zach’s scrawny chest. His dark eyes hovered there for a moment, around his belly button. Maybe lower. Did that mean he could see everything?

Zach wanted to apologize and maybe start crying from embarrassment again. But there was a slight chance Mr. Yang hadn’t noticed that something had happened, because he looked up again like nothing _had_ , and Zach didn’t want his favorite teacher to think that he was some kind of sick pervert. Even when that was what he ultimately seemed to be.

Zach swallowed hard. His insides felt all jumbled, which definitely wasn’t from the fighting. He fumbled for his glasses. Almost dropped them in his haste. When he finally slid them onto his nose, bunched-up tee and backpack already in hand, the world came flooding into focus. Mr. Yang, of course, then the vastness of the gym hall they were floating in on their little red raft, and the long, long way to the door.

“I-,” Zach stuttered, fighting for the words to come. “I need to go home.”

He headed straight for the door. Deep inside, his stomach churned. He could still feel Mr. Yang’s warmth lingering on his thighs.

There was shuffling behind him. “Zachary, wait.”

Zach’s heart clenched. He wanted to, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t have the older boys _and_ his teacher hate him in one day. But if he had to choose, he’d rather have Frank on his case than Mr. Yang.

He stopped by the door. “It was Frank,” he said, barely loud enough to carry across the room. “He and his two slimy friends.”

Then he turned on his heel and ran, out and away from the school, until Mr. Yang’s voice had faded behind the howling of the evening wind.

**Author's Note:**

> PS: I don't know anything about American schools. (Meaning which years have homeroom and which don't, things like that.)


End file.
